Kenyon shot past the doctor a discolored stream. That gentleman moved uneasily to one side. “Don't move,” said the statesman, affably. “Plenty of room between you and the casing.” He left his chair and stood facing the doctor, and unpleasantly close. “Say, our young friend here's turned what I intended to be a vacation into a very busy time. He's got me down for speeches and all sorts of things, and it will be a wonder if I go home to Hanover sober. I won't if he can help it, that's dead sure. Won't you come in and have something?--just a little appetizer before supper?” “No, I thank you.” “A cigar, then?” fumbling in his vest-pocket with fingers that were just the least bit unsteady. “No, I must hurry along.” “We hope to get up again before Mr. Kenyon leaves town,” said Ryder, wishing to head the statesman off. He was all right with such men as Cap Roberts and the Hon. Jeb Burrows, but he had failed signally to take the doctor's measure. The latter turned away. “I hope you will, Griff,” he said, kindly, his voice dwelling with the least perceptible insistence on the last pronoun. “Remember me to the wife and daughter,” called out Kenyon, as the physician moved up the street with an unusual alacrity. It was late in the afternoon, and the men from the car-shops were beginning to straggle past, going in the direction of their various homes. Presently Roger Oakley strode heavily by, with his tin dinner-pail on his arm. Otherwise there was nothing, either in his dress or appearance, to indicate that he was one of the hands. As he still lived at the hotel with Dan, he felt it necessary to exercise a certain care in the matter of dress. As he came into view the Congressman swept him with a casual scrutiny; then, as the old man plodded on up the street with deliberate step, Kenyon rose from his chair and stood in the doorway gazing after him. “What's the matter, Sam?” asked Ryder, struck by his friend's manner. “Who was that old man who just went past?” “That? Oh, that's the manager's father. Why?” “Well, he looks most awfully like some one else, that's all,” and he appeared to lose interest. “No, he's old man Oakley. He works in the shops.” “Oakley?” “Yes, that's his name. Why?” curiously. “How long has he been here, anyhow?” “A month perhaps, maybe longer. Do you know him?” “I've seen him before. A cousin of mine, John Kenyon, is warden of a prison back in Massachusetts. It runs in the blood to hold office. I visited him last winter, and while I was there a fire broke out in the hospital ward, and that old man had a hand in saving the lives of two or three of the patients. The beggars came within an ace of losing their lives. I saw afterwards by the papers that the Governor had pardoned him.” Ryder jumped up with sudden alacrity. “Do you remember the convict's full name?” Kenyon meditated a moment; then he said: “Roger Oakley.” The editor turned to the files of the _Herald_.